


Researching the Solution

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [35]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Ancient Secrets, Diagnosis, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-14 12:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17509061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: In the aftermath of Team One’s disastrous yearly evaluations, Wordy visits a Healer to see if they can find out why his hands are trembling.  The diagnosis stuns not only him, but his family and his boss.  And magic can’t heal him…or can it?  Meanwhile, Giles tackles the mystery of Tristan Conté: the first and only Wild Mage Dark Lord.





	1. Healer-Doctor?

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the thirty-fifth in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "United We Stand".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.

Greg Parker sighed as he surveyed the contents of his refrigerator; one thing his _nipote_ had failed to mention the night before was that his new instincts came with a distinct desire for _meat_ : the rarer, the better.  Unfortunately he hadn’t had much time for grocery shopping lately and his last shopping trip had been more of a milk and cereal speed run.  He finally snagged the milk and grabbed a box of his usual oatmeal cereal off the counter, but couldn’t quite help his longing look at a package of uncooked bacon hiding in the ‘fridge’s corner.

“Real pain in the butt, huh?” Lance observed, smirking as his uncle jumped and whirled.  “Always takes me a day or two to get used to eating ‘human’ again after I shift.”

The Sergeant watched as his nephew raided the freezer and slipped the milk away to pour a glass for himself.  One eyebrow hiked at the teenager’s breakfast choice.  “A cheddar and ham Hot Pocket is eating ‘human’, _mio nipote_?”

“Well, it’s more human than raw bacon,” Lance teased as he popped his plate in the microwave.

Busted, Greg busied himself with his cereal.  Then his mind reprocessed his nephew’s words and he turned, giving his nephew a narrow, suspicious look.  Lance made to smirk, but the smirk vanished altogether as Alanna sailed in and put her own two cents in the mix.  “I caught him in here last week reaching for it.”

“ _Really_ ,” Parker remarked, a low warning rumble building up in his chest as he glared at his _nipote_.

Lance jerked back, his head lowering and a soft apologetic whine coming from his own chest.

Alanna paused in the middle of reaching for a container of strawberries and glanced over her shoulder, confused by the odd behavior from both her brother and uncle.  After a few seconds of looking between them, understanding blossomed in her eyes and she moved to her uncle’s side.  “Stop,” she ordered softly.  “You’re letting your inner gryphon out again.”

Until that moment, Greg had been unappeased by his nephew’s instant and contrite submission; the rumble in his chest had been deepening into a growl as his human disapproval of eating raw meat mixed with the gryphon’s inability to register anything other than that the fledging in front of him had tried to eat fresh meat before _he_ could.  Alanna’s intervention broke the spell and the Sergeant lurched back, shocked at how _easy_ it had been to slip into the gryphon’s mindset and not even realize it.

“I…”  Greg stumbled to a stop, wanting to apologize, but not even sure what for.  It didn’t help that his gryphon instincts were bristling at the idea of apologizing to an impudent young fledge getting too big for his wings.

“ ‘Lanna, stand down,” Lance murmured, waving his sister back.  Without hesitation, the teen walked right up to his uncle, tilting his head to the side just enough to expose his neck.

Greg swallowed hard as the bristling inside his head faded, the instincts shifting to the background once more.  Before he could speak, Lance moved his head just enough that their eyes met; Parker stiffened as the gryphon instincts pushed themselves forward, indignant once more at what they perceived as a challenge to his authority.

“I know it’s hard,” Lance whispered, just loud enough for his uncle to hear.  “But you can control this, Uncle Greg; the gryphon’s not human, but it’s still _you_ …as long as you make sure it knows _you’re_ running the show.  Give it a millimeter and it’ll take a kilometer.  Either _you’re_ in charge or _it_ is.”

It took an iron effort and every bit of willpower the Sergeant could muster, but as the moment hung, he determinedly powered through the gryphon’s reaction to normal human behavior.  Lance held perfectly still throughout the process and Alanna wisely stayed out of Greg’s line of sight.  The gryphon instincts, given free rein throughout the previous day, did not surrender without a fight, but Parker was not about to let this new set of instincts ruin his life.

Lance perked up as his uncle’s eyes shifted fully back to human and Greg let his breath out.  Greg held his position a few seconds longer, then rested his hands on his nephew’s shoulders.  “I think I’ve got a handle on it now.”

“Yeah,” Lance agreed.  “Really, this is the hardest part, Uncle Greg.  You might have to do that a few more times; I sure did; but the first time’s the worst.”

“Copy that,” Greg breathed before going back to his half-poured bowl of cereal.  The Sergeant grimaced; the cereal looked even _less_ appetizing than it had before.  Reminding himself that letting his gryphon instincts control him – even if it was in a small area – wasn’t a good idea, Greg finished pouring his cereal and picked up the milk jug Lance slid to him.  “You said ‘shift’ earlier, but I didn’t.  Not yesterday and not just now,” the elder man pointed out as he worked.

“Actually, you did, even if it wasn’t a full shift,” Lance replied.  Greg turned, surprised.  Seeing his expression, the teen explained simply, “Your eyes shifted just now and you told me last night that you were pretty sure your teeth shifted.  Eyes and teeth might not seem like much to you, but it’s enough.”

The Sergeant made a face at that and stubbornly pushed away the mental images of ripping into a nice, juicy steak.  Instead, he took his bowl of cereal to the table and started in, only to freeze and stare at the bowl.  Choking down his mouthful, he asked, “And, um, how long does it take for things to _taste_ normal again?”

“Huh?”

For several long seconds the two stared at each other, Alanna nervously observing from the background.  Then Greg groaned and dropped his head into his hands.  _Welcome to the new normal, Parker…_

* * * * *

After breakfast, the small family gathered in the living room, where Greg laid out the day’s agenda.  “Okay,” he began, fixing both teens with a look that was both hopeful and a trifle expectant, “We need to find a Healer with a medical degree: someone who can do full medicals for every member of Team One.”

“I thought it was only Uncle Wordy who needed a full medical?” Alanna questioned, quietly nudging a small plate of apple slices in her uncle’s direction.  Parker ignored the silent offer; it was bad enough that the taste of his usual cereal had been radically altered by his newly acquired gryphon instincts without immediately discovering how his taste in fruit had also changed.

In the meantime, Greg didn’t bother to hide his wince at his niece’s question.  “For now, yes, Wordy’s the only member of the team who’s _required_ to have a full medical,” he conceded, “But sooner or later, all of us will need one.  Spike’s been hit by the _Cruciatus_ , Sam had that Old Religion spell cast on him, Jules temporarily lost her memory to an accidental _Obliviate_ , and I can only imagine what they’d find if _I_ had a medical right now.  That means almost the entire team could end up accidentally exposing the wizarding world if anything magic-side shows up in our medicals.”

The teens traded looks, unsure and clearly not quite buying the idea that techie doctors could discover the wizarding world simply by doing full medicals on the members of Team One.

“Most Healers probably wouldn’t bother with getting a tech-side education,” Alanna finally admitted, after thinking the matter over.  “If they make it to full Healer, they’re pretty much guaranteed a good job magic-side, so why bother?”

Their uncle’s shoulders slumped.  “Then we have a problem,” he sighed.

Lance was silent as he stared down at the coffee table; when Greg looked over at him, he shrugged – he didn’t have any ideas either.

The Sergeant scowled to himself; there had to be an answer, there _had_ to.  In the silence that fell, the three Calvin-Parkers each pondered the problem, searching for an idea, an inkling, something to say.  Into that silence, the knock at the door was surprisingly loud; the teens jumped and Greg arched an eyebrow in the direction of the door, as if that would tell him who was outside.

When there was another knock, Parker pushed himself to his feet and trudged to the door, peeking through the peephole and drawing back in some surprise.  Cautiously, he pulled the door open.  “Mrs. Taylor?”

* * * * *

Grant Taylor sat in the kitchen of his home, scowling at the _Toronto Oracle_ as he sat at his table and sliced a pear for breakfast.  At the counter, Brooke was reading through and marking the latest theory tests for Brady’s class; Brady’s father had recently run into some unexpected health issues and the young wizard had gone on personal leave to help his parents keep up with the Healer’s appointments and the family business.  Brooke and Grant were tag-teaming Brady’s defense classes and keeping the students up-to-date even as Grant ran in circles, trying to finish up the last of the parchmentwork for the Shiloh Eagles dueling team.

Without looking up, Brooke asked, “Are they screaming about those poor kids _again_?”

“At this point, Brooke, if you have to ask,” Grant sighed.  He scanned the article again, his scowl growing fiercer by the moment.  “Still no details about _why_ it’s so bad to have this ‘Wild Magic’, just ranting and raving.”

“Must be quite a story,” Brooke mused, looking up and propping her chin on her hand.

“Or it’s so old that no one remembers why it’s an issue, just that it is,” Grant countered.  “Like a grudge or something.”

“Did you ask Brady or J.T.?”

“Sure I did, Brooke.  First day the story broke, I took the _Oracle_ to work and asked, but they didn’t have a clue what the problem was.”

Brooke nodded.  “That’s when I was up at your folks, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Grant confirmed, slapping the newspaper down in disgust and turning to his breakfast.  “It’s like they made up their minds that those two kids are dangerous without even _investigating_.  I wanted to go over and ask Giles about this, but he’s suspended.  His partner, too.”

Brooke mused over her husband’s words as she went to the cupboard and pulled down a mug to mix her usual morning tea blend.  “What about the kids?  Did you ask them?”

When she glanced over her shoulder, surprised that Grant hadn’t immediately answered, his face was troubled.  Without meeting her eyes, he murmured, “Lance and Alanna haven’t been to Shiloh for over two weeks.  I was getting close to sending Sergeant Parker a note asking why when the _Oracle_ published its first article.  After that, I figured they were probably laying low.”

“But the _Oracle’s_ first article came out last week,” Brooke protested quietly.  “So where were they the week before that?”

“I don’t know, Brooke,” Grant admitted, shadows in his eyes.  “I don’t want to send a note, though.  With all this… _hysteria_ …I don’t think now is the time to advertise that we have their home address.”

Brooke considered that as she stirred her tea and took a sip.  “What if I went over there?  As long as I take the Knight Bus, no one needs to know who I’m visiting.  We’ve got so many tech-borns at Shiloh now, I could be visiting _any_ of the parents and who’s to tell the difference?”

Hopeful dark brown eyes lifted to her.  “Would you, Brooke?”

Brooke laughed softly at the puppy-dog look Grant gave her.  “You’ll have to handle Brady’s class today,” she warned.

“Done.”

* * * * *

“Good morning, Sergeant Parker,” Brooke said as cheerfully as she could.  “Grant’s been a bit concerned about Lance and Alanna since they haven’t been over at Shiloh for a few weeks, so I thought I’d drop by…”

His brown eyes darkened for a second, then he gave her a rather weak smile.  “It’s been…a complicated…couple of weeks for us, Mrs. Taylor.  I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.”  He backed up and turned, silently inviting her inside.

Brooke smiled back and stepped over the threshold, perfectly aware that no Auror _ever_ verbally invited people inside; after all, her husband used the _exact_ same silent invite every single day.  “So, how have you and your rascals been, Sergeant?”

“We’ve had better months,” the Sergeant admitted candidly.  “Lance had a car accident on his birthday and let’s just say that kicked off quite a hornet’s nest.  We’re still dealing with the fallout.”

“The Wild Magic thing,” Brooke concluded, earning a single nod.  “We’ve seen the articles.”

Parker winced.  “I’ve been avoiding them,” he remarked.  “But I suspect they’re long on shrieking and short on details.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Brooke agreed at once.  “Grant’s taken to folding the _Oracle’s_ pages into parchment airplanes for his students to use as target practice.”

The other barked a laugh and led her into a small, but comfortable living room.  Two teenagers looked up from their seats on a chair and the couch.  “Mrs. Taylor,” Alanna greeted, jumping to her feet.

Brooke gave Alanna a chiding look.  “Now, now,” she mock-scolded.  “Outside of Shiloh, it’s Brooke, remember?”

Mischief danced, right before Lance offered a contrite, “Yes, Mrs. Taylor.”

Parker stifled a chuckle and Brooke sighed in resignation as she took the seat Alanna discreetly guided her to.  “Grant wanted me to tell the two of you that, on behalf of the Shiloh Dueling Academy, you are always welcome,” Brooke began.  “If there’s anything you need, please, let us know and we’ll do what we can to help.”

She watched as the three traded startled looks, then Lance cleared his throat.  “Um, actually…”

“Yes?” Brooke prompted, leaning forward.

Alanna blurted it out.  “Do you know any Healers with Muggle medical degrees?”


	2. The Griffin Diary

In a small home nestled in one of Toronto’s magical neighborhoods, Giles Onasi hummed a tune under his breath as he occupied himself with setting the pages of the _Toronto Oracle_ on fire, one by one.  Even with his duties at the 12th Division, the currently suspended Auror was getting very, very bored.  Sergeant Gamboli had no idea that his two oddball detectives were suspended from their _other_ division, so their 12th Division schedule had remained the same in spite of their punishment.

That left Giles with far too much free time and nothing to do but read the _Oracle_ and brood over how the situation had reached this point.  As the last parchment roll curled and smoked, Onasi scowled heavily.  It wasn’t fair that two kids who’d never done anything wrong were being targeted for their gifts.  Wasn’t fair that those same kids now had to hide and keep their heads down for fear of ending up in the hands of the Unspeakables.

But life wasn’t fair – that was, Giles reflected ruefully, a lesson he should’ve learned by now.  The wizard slumped in his chair, trying, as he had many times over the past week, to figure out a way for the Calvins to rejoin the wizarding world without being lynched.  Unfortunately, the only solution he’d come up with so far was time travel and making sure their secret stayed intact – not exactly a viable long-term solution, even if, in some wild fantasy world, it worked.

Idly, the Auror wondered if he shouldn’t call Roy up and ask if he wanted to go over to the range; though Giles was much more skilled than when he’d first started using his techie firearm, he knew perfectly well that he could always improve.  A tapping on his window brought the wizard’s head around with a fresh frown.

Most of the time, anyone sending him mail sent it to Auror Division Headquarters; it was simpler and easier, since most of his mail concerned his job in some way, not to mention his ‘public’ address was fake.  There was also the fact that in the wake of Morgana’s death, he’d paid the goblins top Galleon for wards on his home against anything and everything malicious.  Spells, potions, the odd idiot who tried a ritual cursing.  At the time, he’d been praying and hoping against hope that Dustil would be found alive, but as the days and weeks ticked by, he’d realized.  Dustil was never coming home and all his precautions – not to mention the wards – had been for nothing.  But by then, his address had already been ‘changed’ and the goblin wards had been in place, which naturally included protection against any sort of cursed mail.

As a bonus, the goblins had included a spell that would alert the Auror to any mail which _was_ cursed, allowing him to identify who had sent it.  Purely out of a sense of vindictive glee, the few times he _had_ gotten cursed mail, he’d marked it ‘return to sender’ and made sure to be around to watch the resulting chaos.  It had not taken long for the criminal world at large to get the message and his mail had dropped off to almost nothing.

Reluctantly, Giles put out the fire consuming the last few bits of the _Oracle_ and sauntered over to his window, opening it up and stepping back as a snowy owl swept inside, a bulky package tied to its talons.  The owl landed on the nearby perch for visiting owls and extended its leg with an imperious clack of its beak.

Giles freed the package from the owl’s leg and opened it up, curious.  A note slipped free from the pages of an archaic-looking journal and Onasi snagged it, his eyes narrowing as he turned the small page over to read it.

_“Auror Giles Onasi,_

_Contained within this package is a copy of a diary written by Godric Gryffindor; a diary kept within his family and out of sight for such a time as this.  I believe you will find its entries make for quite interesting reading.  Included for your reading advantage is a bookmark, one I trust you will find useful._

_A Concerned Third Party”_

Onasi blinked, tilting his head to the side before he shrugged and opened up the rest of the package, pulling out the diary.  He looked up, then around; the owl was gone.  The Auror detoured to his kitchen for a bottle of butterbeer, then made himself comfortable in his favorite armchair to read the mystery diary.

On the front of the diary a griffin rampant stood tall and proud, the rampant gold against the red cover of the book.  The bookmark was about a third of the way through the tome; Giles flipped the diary open and reached for the bookmark so he could start at the diary’s beginning, only to pause as his eyes snagged on a name: Tristan Conté.

* * * * *

_Barely a week into the new school year, Godric Gryffindor was alerted by Hogwarts’ outer wards to the arrival of an unexpected guest.  The redheaded wizard stopped in his tracks, a considering look in deep green eyes.  After a moment, Godric, in between his classes, swept down the stairs to Hogwarts’ entry hall and out the front doors to see a rider approaching.  His mount was lathered with sweat; as the horse pulled up, Godric could see its sides heaving.  The rider was scarcely any better as he tumbled from the saddle._

_“My Lord Gryffindor,” the man gasped, “I bring tidings from His Majesty, Cináed mac Maíl Choluim_ **(1)** _.  A nearby village has been destroyed.”_

_“His Majesty wishes our aid?” Godric inquired, a frown appearing on his face.  Surely his distant cousin had not forgotten that, by the King’s own Royal Writ, the Earldom of Hogsmeade was_ neutral _in all matters concerning the many kingdoms dotting the land._

_“No, my lord,” the messenger averred at once, pulling a folded letter from his mount’s saddlebags.  With a bow, the exhausted man presented the letter to Gryffindor._

_Godric took the letter and informed the messenger, “Our stables are back down the path and on your left.  Helga should be finished with her classes by now; you may leave your mount with her and the house-elves will see to your needs.  I will speak with you once I have read the King’s letter.”_

_“Thank you, my lord,” the messenger replied, bowing again before he tugged his mount after him and departed._

_Alone again, Godric opened the letter, noting that the letter was an official proclamation rather than simply a letter._

“To the Earl of Hogsmeade,

Greetings.

Whereas the town of Owlshollow has been destroyed by persons unknown.

And Whereas the rolls of Hogwarts, furnished to the Crown, reveal several of non-magical origin hailing from Owlshollow in current attendance.

And Whereas the town Owlshollow is suspected of having been attacked by persons magical.

Therefore, Let it be known that I, Cináed mac Maíl Choluim, formally request that the Earl of Hogsmeade inform his affected students of the destruction of their hometown.

Further, Let it be known that the Earldom of Hogsmeade is charged with investigating the ruins of Owlshollow to confirm or refute suspicions of an attack upon the residents of that town by persons magical.

Set by my hand and command, the 7th day of September, in the Year of Our Lord 976.

Cináed mac Maíl Choluim”

_Godric drew in a deep breath and went to find Salazar.  They had work to do._

* * * * *

_With the King’s Royal Proclamation in hand, the two wizards had no trouble gaining entry to the once bustling town of Owlshollow.  Neither wizard permitted himself to react to the devastation around them; the town had been burned to the ground with the slain residents still inside their homes._

_Godric felt a chill of foreboding as he surveyed the first few houses and noted clear evidence that the fires had been magically set; no_ ordinary _fire started at all four corners of a building simultaneously and Godric could find no signs that a more mundane fire-starter had been used._

_Beside him, Salazar was ashen at the destruction, his silver eyes glittering with outrage and old pain; though Godric hadn’t known beforehand how Owlshollow had been destroyed, he felt guilty for bringing Salazar with him…into_ this _._

_“If you apologize, I will hex you,” Salazar abruptly announced, not even looking at Godric as his wand flicked in a diagnostic pattern.  Godric swallowed his words down, guilt warring with admiration for his raven-haired friend’s refusal to let his memories slow him down for long.  Silver glanced back.  “I read the Proclamation, too, Godric; the King said nothing of_ how _Owlshollow was destroyed, therefore, we did not know.  And also therefore,_ you _have nothing to apologize for.”_

_Godric let the subject drop, well aware that Salazar had his back up and was likely to react…poorly…to his well-meaning concern.  Instead, Godric turned his attention back to the village, searching in vain for any tracks that might belong to the monsters who’d attacked a quiet, innocent little town._

_The wind, normally brisk and sharp in this part of the country, was almost nonexistent, as though the tragedy around them had reduced the gusts to a hushed, respectful silence.  Halfway through the town, as Salazar knelt to inspect the outside of one house’s last remaining wall, two soldiers emerged from a side alley, weapons drawn._

_Godric immediately moved to block them, his own sword lifting partway out of its sheath in warning.  “Hail and well met,” he greeted the pair, recognizing their tabards as ones belonging to the king of a nearby country._

_One of them scowled.  “Conté send you to see what a fine mess ‘e made?”_

_A scarlet brow lifted.  “Conté?”_

_The other soldier tugged his friend back when the man bristled.  “Cor, Edwin, the King of Scotland sent them.  They’re on our side.”  It took a moment, but Edwin backed down and his calmer companion filled the two wizards in.  “No one survived here, but it’s the third village they’ve destroyed.”_

_“The third?” Salazar demanded, horror in his voice as he looked up from his inspection._

_Both soldiers nodded.  “No one knows for sure, but there was one ‘un who survived in the first town and he claims he saw Tristan Conté, leadin’ the attack.”_

_“And who is this Tristan Conté?” Godric inquired._

_The surly soldier looked away with a snort.  “As if you two don’t know.”_

_Salazar opened his mouth, but stopped at Godric’s upraised hand.  Then Godric got in the soldier’s face, growling each word.  “Hear me and hear me_ well _, stripling.  Any_ fiend _who would slaughter women and children in their beds deserves no quarter, nor shall he get it from us.  Moreover, the fiend who committed_ this _treachery…”_

_Godric’s voice shook and Salazar spoke up, his own voice icy where Godric’s had been heated.  “To trap innocents in their homes and burn them to the ground is beyond the pale.”  Godric jerked around, his eyes wide with horror, both for the victims and for the memories this was surely evoking in his friend._

_“On my honor,” Salazar hissed, almost slipping into Parseltongue, “The beasts who did this_ will _be brought to justice, one way or another.”_

_“And mine as well,” Godric swore, before pinning both soldiers with a stern look.  “Explain, if you can, why this man Tristan Conté would do such a thing.”_

* * * * *

_Godric was surprised at his distant cousin’s prompt response to his inquiry, enclosed with his report that Owlshollow had_ certainly _been the victim of a magical attack.  He took the letter to his quarters and opened it at once, eager to learn more of this mysterious Conté._

“Cousin,

I am more relieved than I can say at your quick acceptance of my request that you investigate the ruins of Owlshollow.  Truly, I have heard whispers of late that the Earldom of Hogsmeade is becoming a threat to my rule in spite of your oaths of neutrality.  I did not believe, but I _had_ to be sure, thus my decree that you and yours investigate.

_Godric scowled heavily.  As if he and his friends would endanger Hogwarts and forsake every last sacrifice it had taken to open the school in the first place._

I see from your inquiry that the same name that has reached my ears has reached yours as well.  How matters not, but if we are to deal with this threat, Cousin, you must know all.  You may share this knowledge with your fellows, but no more.

Tristan Conté appeared in the Court of a neighboring kingdom shortly after you renounced your place in the line of succession in return for my Writ concerning your Earldom.  By all accounts, he presented himself in Court as a humble man of some means; he was well-spoken and highly intelligent.  In short order, it was established within the Court that he was a descendant of royalty; what country he hails from is not known.  Naturally, the nobles were delighted to have a former royal amongst their ranks and some prevailed upon the king to grant Conté a permanent place at Court.

Had his ascension begun and ended there, it would scarce matter to me, but Conté slowly worked his way higher and higher within the Court, until he was an advisor to the king in all but title.  It was then that more of his heritage was revealed: he claimed to be a descendant of the First Ruling Line in his home country and _demanded_ honor and respect as such.  The king he served offered a small tract of land and an Earldom, but Conté was not content with what he considered a ‘demeaning’ offer.

It then came to light that Conté had also worked his way into an identical position of strength within another kingdom; one more distant, but no less formidable.  With his treachery exposed, the kings of both kingdoms united to drive Conté out.  He and his retinue fled with the knights at their heels and Conté has not been seen since.  It was believed for many years that Conté had died at the hands of the knights who pursued him, but after the first village was destroyed, I sent messages to all my people, demanding answers.

Cousin, Tristan Conté is not dead and now he seeks to destroy what he was denied.  Only today, messengers arrived from the two kings he tricked, with word that Conté has demanded their thrones in ‘recompense’ for their attempt on his life.  For so long as they refuse, Conté will destroy one village or town a month, until their populations clamor for a new ruler.

Should Conté gain the thrones he seeks, his attention will turn to other kingdoms and, eventually, to Hogwarts.  Neutral you may be, Cousin, but I beg you, do not turn me aside in this matter.  Bring Conté to justice, Cousin, for all our sakes.

Cináed mac Maíl Choluim”

* * * * *

_Godric cursed Conté as he and Salazar inspected the massive pyre in the latest village to be attacked.  As with the other villages, every man, woman, and child had been slain, but in_ this _village, Conté’s men had dragged the villagers from their homes and lashed them to the pyre that the two wizards stood in front of._

_“And so, it begins,” Salazar murmured, detachment in his voice.  Godric turned, arching a brow in question.  “How long, Godric, before the people clamor for another Purge?  The kings will have no choice; they cannot allow such atrocities in their lands lest the people rebel.”_

_“Then we must hurry,” Godric replied, kneeling down and inspecting the tracks left by the attackers._

_“Don’t bother,” Salazar hissed, earning a querying look from his friend.  “They’re using the Old Religion, Godric.”_

_Godric groaned in realization.  “No wonder you were so frustrated in Owlshollow, Salazar.”_

_“Quite,” Salazar deadpanned.  “We cannot track these monsters solely with spells, Godric; the Old Religion obscures and blots out their magical signatures.  Search the town; they left most of the buildings intact this time and there may be places where they left enough of themselves that I can use the Lost Soul Potion.”_

_The redheaded Godric frowned, uncertain if the Lost Soul Potion was up to tracking a potentially large amount of men, all of whom did_ not _want to be found.  Even so, he had no other ideas and they could not allow these attacks to continue._

* * * * *

Giles lowered the diary, his eyes wide.  This…was everything he’d wondered about since hearing the bare bones of the tale from Heir Calvin.  The beginnings of a millennium-long grudge against Wild Magic and those who wielded it.  But reading the account as both a cop and an Auror – not to mention as a part-time member of Team One – Onasi could see that Tristan Conté, despite his unique brand of magic, was just like any of the other Dark Lords throughout history.  Jealous of those ‘above’ him, coveting power, and willing to do whatever he had to do to _get_ that power.

Slowly, Giles put the diary down and went to find himself something stronger to drink.  He was going to need it.

 

[1] Kenneth II, King of Scotland from 971 AD to 995 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to dunuelos' "Lone Traveler: Professor of Defense" for the idea that Hogwarts is legally enjoined from rebelling against the Crown and, in exchange for being neutral, is, quite literally, its own little fiefdom. Also credit to Izzyaro's "Strange Visitors From Another Century" for Salazar Slytherin's back story, which I've already hinted at.
> 
> For those who are interested, both stories can be found on Fanfiction.net.


	3. Diagnosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a review on Fanfiction.net for the previous chapter, nebroadwe pointed out that Giles acted a bit out of character to blindly open up a package from a mysterious owl with an equally cryptic note. After all, Giles does have an established history of being both paranoid and security conscious. Also, he's an Auror, which means he should know that mail isn't always safe (just as Hermione discovered, to her detriment, in _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ ).
> 
> It was a very good catch and definitely a factor for me to keep in mind moving forward. I've added a bit to the prior chapter in an attempt to explain why Giles was so cavalier about his safety. If anyone is interested, they can go peek at that, but it really doesn't change the story in any way. Just a bit more detail.
> 
> Thank you again to nebroadwe for bringing that to my attention.

The man standing in line was a bit awkward in his brown robes, but the robes were the best way to go unnoticed and unharassed, so, aside from a few fidgets, the brunet stood calmly.  When he reached the front of the line, he pulled out a paper and stepped up to the Welcome Witch.

“Welcome to St. Mungo’s, how may I direct you?” the woman behind the counter inquired in a rather monotone voice.

“Hi, I’m, ah, looking for a Healer Susan Travis?”

The blonde witch blinked, clearly caught off guard to have a guest looking for a specific Healer rather than a specific floor or ward.  It took a moment for her to rally, then she asked, “What was the name again, sir?”

“Susan Travis,” the brunet replied, shifting nervously.

But the Welcome Witch smiled broadly.  “Oh, Susan!  Fourth floor, sir; Susan works mostly with Aurors, so she’s primarily on the Spell Damage floor.”

“Thanks,” Wordy told the witch before he headed for the stairs.  Sarge had said he’d gotten the name from Brooke Taylor, but hadn’t had any more details about the Healer.  But if this Susan Travis worked mostly with Aurors, then maybe she _could_ do a full medical for him.  The constable jogged up the stairs; after the ten flight climb of the day before, this was nothing.  Even so, Wordy kept his eyes open and constantly scanned for any trouble.

Once he reached the fourth floor, he stepped in and looked around curiously.  Unlike a tech-side hospital, there was no reception desk, but Wordy soon spied a Healer making his rounds.  The constable walked over to the wizard and waited while the man scribbled a few notes on a sheet of parchment.

Without looking up, the wizard asked, “Can I help you, sir?”

“I’m looking for Healer Susan Travis,” Wordy explained, his nerves mounting.

The wizard finished his note and glanced up, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.  “Three rooms down, long blonde hair, bad attitude, can’t miss her.”  With that, the wizard went back to his notes.

Bemused by the description, Wordy headed the requisite three rooms down and peeked in the open door.  A young witch was inside, writing something on a small, prescription-sized piece of parchment.  “Take this to your local apothecary; you can either brew it at home or pay them five Sickles to brew it for you.  Take _one_ cup of potion once a day for the next two weeks; one cauldron of potion per week.  Mind you, only one cup at a time or you’ll be dealing with an upset stomach.  No Stomach-Smoother unless you want to be on this potion for the next month, understand?”

The business-like witch eyed her patient, who looked rather unhappy with her instructions.  “No Stomach-Smoother?” the wizard protested.

“None,” the Healer confirmed, her expression stern.  “Too much Stomach-Smoother is how you got into this in the first place; you should’ve come right in as soon as you realized the problem wasn’t going away.”  She finished writing, signed the sheet with a flourish, and then handed it to the wizard.  “Come and see me once you’ve finished the potion regimen.”

The chastised wizard slunk out of the room, past the man in the doorway.  The Healer looked her next guest over, one brow arching.  “Well, don’t just stand there,” she snapped, turning away.  “Come in and take a seat.”

Wordy bit back a chuckle as he obeyed, snagging the chair the wizard had been using.  He leaned back in the seat as the witch shuffled through several files and tucked her notes from the prior patient away.

“Now,” the witch remarked, swiveling to face Wordy.  “What seems to be the problem today, sir?”

“You’re Healer Susan Travis, right?” Wordy asked.

“I am,” the witch confirmed.  “I take it you were specifically looking to see _me_ today?”

“Yes,” Wordy acknowledged.

The blonde considered her prospective patient.  “Why me?”

The brunet leaned forward.  “I need a full medical examination, one that can go in a ‘Muggle’ personal file.”

For a few seconds, Healer Travis looked a bit taken aback.  “I think I’ll need a few more details, sir.”  She pulled out a fresh sheaf of parchment.  “Starting with your name, please.”

“Oh, sorry,” Wordy apologized.  “Kevin Wordsworth.”  He waited for her to write his name, then cautiously added, “I’m part of a team that works both in the wizarding world and the ‘Muggle’ world; I’ve got a personal file on both sides and my last non-magical medical is three years old.”

“We’ll get there, sir,” Healer Travis reassured the constable.  She patiently quizzed Wordy on his medical history, employment history, and a few other things that Wordy was puzzled about, but gamely answered.  When she was done asking questions, she wrote for several seconds before facing her patient.  “I can do a full medical examination on you, here, Auror Wordsworth, but, as you’ve probably guessed, it could only be filed in your Auror personal file, not your Muggle personal file.”

“Okay.”  Wordy considered thoughtfully, trying to figure out a way to get the magic-side medical in his tech-side file.

“However.”  Wordy’s head snapped up and Healer Travis smiled.  “I _can_ get you an appointment to see my brother; he’s a Muggle doctor who works for my family’s medical practice.  And naturally, since he already knows about magic, he can catch anything that shouldn’t go in your Muggle file.  How does that sound?”

Wordy’s grin split his face.  “That sounds perfect.”

Healer Travis gave him a slight smile of her own.  “Well, then,” she pointed to an exam bed.  “If you could lie down on there, I’ll get started.”

The constable moved to the exam bed, stretching out and getting as comfortable as he could.  He watched with unabashed curiosity as Healer Travis pulled out more parchment and set up a quill and inkwell.  When the setup was done, the Healer’s wand dropped into her hand and she flicked it in Wordy’s direction.  He automatically tensed, but the wand immediately turned away and pointed to the quill.  Travis’ light brown eyes twinkled with amusement at Wordy’s reflexive tense, but she said nothing.

When Wordy had first seen a full medical examination, he’d been happily in the role of observer rather than patient.  Now, as the patient, he could vaguely feel the magic brushing against his skin and looking for any and all medical problems; it was rather unnerving, truth be told.  He shivered a bit, but held still as the magic continued to work.  When it finally faded, he was quietly relieved and shifted to relax his tense muscles.

“You can sit up,” Healer Travis remarked.  “I’m done with the examination.”

Without hesitation, Wordy pushed himself upright and turned on the bed to let his legs dangle off the side.  One brow arched as he took in the fact that there were a total of _eight_ scrolls lined up on the exam room’s countertop – and another in Travis’ hands.  “Um, is that a lot?”

The Healer looked up from the first scroll and followed Wordy’s gaze.  Her shoulder hiked in a shrug.  “I’ve seen more,” was her only comment before she dove back into her reading.  Wordy took the hint and shut up as she browsed through the scrolls, murmuring under her breath as she worked, making notes on her initial sheaf of parchment.

When Travis was done, she unrolled all the scrolls again and tucked them together, careful to keep them organized.  “I’m done with your Auror medical, Auror Wordsworth.  Can you do the appointment with my brother now?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wordy confirmed.

He received a thin-lipped smile.  “Good.”  Travis’s wand jabbed at the door, which closed and Wordy saw a sign drop into place through the door’s window.  Another jab drew a pinch of Floo powder out of a bowl above the exam room’s fireplace.  “We’re heading for the Travis Medical Practice.”

“Copy that.”  Wordy drew in a breath as the fire turned green.  Then he stepped in and called, “Travis Medical Practice.”

* * * * *

Naturally, he went sprawling as he tumbled out of the fireplace.  Lance and Alanna had done their best to give him tips on how to Floo without falling, but so far, he just wasn’t getting the hang of it.  Wordy picked himself up as the fire flared again and Healer Travis stepped out, her sheaf of parchment in hand.

“Follow me, Auror Wordsworth,” the brisk, no-nonsense Healer ordered, sweeping past Wordy with nary a backward glance.

Travis led him through a short hallway and into a medium sized office area, complete with reception desk and a small waiting area for the patients.  The blonde strode right up to the desk and snapped at the receptionist, “Knight to E3.”

“Rook to H3,” the receptionist countered, looking up from his computer.  “Hiya, sis, how ya been?”

“Agatha out again?” Travis inquired, leaning against the counter.

“Yep, she picked up a nasty bug from one of the kiddies last week,” the young man with short dark-blond hair confirmed, giving his sister a quick, wry grin.  Though his hair was closely cropped on the sides, the top was springy and parted on the left side.  Intelligent blue eyes regarded Wordy with curiosity and interest.  “Got a new patient for me?”

“Maybe.”

Delight shone on the man’s face and he rose from his chair.  “Well, then, come right in.”

Bemused, Wordy trailed the siblings as they led him into another part of the building and a small exam room.  Once the door was closed, Healer Travis cleared her throat.  “Jesse, I’d like you to meet Auror Wordsworth.  He needs a full medical for his Muggle personal file.”  Without waiting for a reply, she turned to Wordy.  “Auror Wordsworth, meet my brother, Doctor Jesse Travis.”

“Nice to meet you,” Wordy said at once, shaking the doctor’s hand.

“And you,” Doctor Travis returned, before casting a confused look at his sister.  “He’s a Muggleborn?”

“Actually, I’m a Squib,” Wordy cut in.  “I work for the Police Strategic Response Unit and my team works on both sides of the fence.”

It was Healer Travis’ turn to frown.  “You said you were an Auror.”

“I _am_ an Auror,” Wordy replied, pulling out his wallet badge and opening it up so the two could see his Auror badge.  “We hold rank on both sides, ma’am.”  Focusing on Doctor Travis, he awkwardly added, “See, thing is, my current medical is three years old, but I’ve been hit by a couple curses, so…”

The doctor nodded, understanding where Wordy was going.  “So you avoided getting another full medical until now?”

“Yeah,” Wordy admitted, rubbing the back of his head.  “That’s about the size of it.”

Doctor Travis rubbed his hands together, looking both excited and intrigued by the challenge Wordy presented.  “Well, I admit, I’ve not run into this type of situation before, but let’s see what we can do.  My sister here should be able to help me keep any hint of magic out of your medical report.  Of course, since your last medical was three years ago and you’re a new patient, it’s going to take awhile to get the results, Constable Wordsworth.”

“That’s fine,” Wordy replied.  “I’ve lived my whole life on the tech side of the fence, Doctor Travis; waiting for results isn’t new to me.”

A gleam shone in the doctor’s eyes, but he didn’t ask about Wordy’s choice of term.  “Okay, then.  Let’s get started.”

* * * * *

A week after Wordy’s initial meeting with Healer Travis, Dr. Travis called him at home and asked when he would be available to come in.  Well aware that his cleared status was riding on getting his full medical, Wordy opted to take off from work and snapped up Travis’s earliest appointment time.

* * * * *

Kevin and Shelley Wordsworth sat in Dr. Jesse Travis’s small exam room with his sister, Healer Susan Travis, leaning against the wall.  Jesse sighed as he brought up the test results on his computer screen.  “Well, the good news, Constable Wordsworth, is that your overall health is very good.  I see no problems in signing you off as cleared for duty.”

“I concur,” Susan drawled from her position.

“But?” Wordy pressed; he could tell there was something up…neither Travis looked happy.

“But,” Susan agreed, with a brief, tiny smirk.  “You _do_ have a problem, Constable.”

“A problem?” Shelley asked worriedly.

It was Jesse who dropped the bombshell.  “You have Parkinson’s Disease, Constable Wordsworth.”

Wordy froze.  It took a minute to get his mouth to work again.  “I have what?”

“Parkinson’s Disease,” Susan repeated impatiently, tossing her head just a bit.  “It’s a neurological disease…”

“I know what it is,” Wordy cut in, looking between the siblings.  Focusing in on Susan, he asked, “Can you treat it?”

The regret on her face was answer enough, but she replied nonetheless, her voice almost gentle, “No, I can’t, Auror Wordsworth.  Wizards and witches don’t _get_ Parkinson’s Disease, so there’s never been any research into it.”

Wordy stiffened.  “So…if I weren’t a Squib…”

“In all likelihood, you wouldn’t have gotten this,” Susan finished.  “I’m very sorry, Auror.”

With a harsh swallow, Wordy turned his attention to Jesse.  “What are my options?”

Jesse gave him an encouraging smile.  “We’ve caught this fairly early on, so we’ve got time to figure things out and get you on a treatment plan.  Now, although there’s plenty of research going on, there’s no cure on _our_ side of the fence, either, but if you respond well to the medication, I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to continue in your job as a police constable, at least for the foreseeable future.”

“Where do I start?” Wordy asked, clenching Shelley’s hand; she squeezed back just as tightly.

“We’ll start with the most common medication and work our way up,” Jesse decided.  “Now, I can also see if you qualify for any of the research studies, but that would mean taking medication that’s still in development and possibly quite expensive.”

“Let’s stick with the basics for now,” Wordy decided, earning a brisk nod.  As the doctor turned away to consult with his sister, Wordy and Shelley exchanged looks and Wordy felt a lump in his throat.  Parkinson’s…it already felt like a death knell.


	4. Darkness Past

Boredom was a thing of the past as Giles Onasi retrieved a notebook and fountain ink pen to take notes on the Case of the Wild Mage Dark Lord Tristan Conté.  Rapidly, Giles scribbled down his initial impressions of Conté as well as a note to find out what was up with the references to the _Earldom_ of Hogsmeade as well as Hogwarts’ status as a neutral entity.  Hogwarts was older than most, if not all, of the Ministries of Magic, but it had always operated as if it was under Ministry jurisdiction.  Was that not the case?  And did it even matter?

With the diary open on his left and his notes ready and waiting under his right hand, Giles dove back into the account, eager for the next installment.

* * * * *

_Merlin’s beard, he_ dares _!  He dares send his sycophant to Hogwarts, imploring us to aid him against the Crown!  I shall put my blade through his black heart_ myself _!_

* * * * *

A tiny scorch mark was below the words, burned through the page and several following.  Giles winced at the evidence of the Founder’s raw fury.

* * * * *

_Chatter rang through the Great Hall as the students conversed over their dinners and debated the increasingly hot topic of one Tristan Conté and his ongoing vendetta against several kingdoms.  Above the students, at the Staff Table, the four Founders put their heads together, organizing their schedules so that Godric and Salazar could spend more of their time hunting the dangerous man down._

_The longer Conté was permitted to roam, the more likely it became that he would bring the whole of the wizarding world crashing down; the wizards simply did not have the numbers or the unity to survive a concentrated effort to wipe them out.  There were too many wizards serving the different kings and queens of the lands and those wizards often held the same grudges their rulers did.  Without unity, without cohesion, the wizards would stand no chance against their non-magical foes.  Hogwarts was yet young, the unity it sought to foster years, if not_ decades _away; the wizarding world could ill afford the chaos Tristan Conté sought so assiduously to unleash on them._

_Abruptly, chatter ceased and the four looked up to see a man in blue robes with silver trim standing at the Great Hall’s entrance.  Emblazoned on the front of his robes was a silver crown and sword.  The wizard stepped forward and spoke into the silence, “I bring greetings from His Majesty, King Tristan Conté.  His Majesty would treat with the Earl of Hogsmeade in hopes of securing the future of our world.”_

_Godric rose to his feet, his expression one of outrage and fury.  “Conté now lays claim to the title of ‘King’?”_

_“As the Heir to the First Ruling Line, it is his right,” the messenger returned stiffly, offering a brief bow to Gryffindor._

_The other Founders rose, shifting to battle-ready positions as Godric stalked around the Staff Table and down the center of the Great Hall.  When he reached the messenger, he leaned in and declared, in a loud, ringing voice, “Return to your_ master _and tell him that Hogwarts will_ never _support him or his ilk.  He has slaughtered innocents and drawn the ire of the kings of these lands down on those with magic, whether we support your master or no.”_

_The Founder stepped back, drawing his sword with a ring of steel.  “Should your master continue, our world will be wiped out in a Purge that will make the Purge of Uther Pendragon seem but a trifle in comparison.  Hogwarts will not permit it!  So swear I, Godric Gryffindor.”_

_“And I, Salazar Slytherin!”_

_Godric almost smiled as he felt Salazar at his back; the slim, dark-haired wizard was often dismissed as a cripple by opponents at first glance, but Salazar had long ago proven that he could hold his own in almost any fight._

_At the Staff Table, Rowena and Helga readied themselves to cast protective spells over the students should a fight break out.  The messenger glared at the wizards who had denounced both him and his message, but backed away without drawing his wand.  “His Majesty will not forget your defiance, Earl Gryffindor,” the man declared.  “He will not forgive; he extended his hand in friendship and you have slapped it away.  You seek_ peace _with those who would slaughter us!”_

_“Perhaps,” Godric drawled, “_ They _would not attack_ us _if_ we _did not attack_ them _first!”  With a final glare, the messenger vanished back out the door.  Godric held his position for several moments, silently requesting that Hogwarts ensure the man left without further issue.  Without turning, the redhead murmured, “Later, Salazar.”_

_He heard Salazar huff, but the other replied, “Agreed, Godric.”  Then Slytherin turned and headed to his table to begin the picky, tedious work of calming the students down._

* * * * *

_“Godric, what were you thinking?” Salazar demanded sharply._

_Godric sighed quietly, gesturing for his friend to calm down.  “Salazar, though I might_ wish _otherwise, I know that as long as those of magic and those without magic live alongside each other without truly understanding and accepting each other, there will always be tension and jealousy.  It is all but inevitable…human nature at its_ worst _, old friend.  And we are far removed from the days when Albion seemed to be just within reach.”  The redhead gave his friend an apologetic look.  “I did not mean to make light of what you suffered, Salazar.”_

_Salazar shook his head, regret on his face.  “And I should not have been so quick to take offense, Godric.  I know well that it is your dream to one day rekindle faith in Albion.”_

_Helga cleared her throat, pinning the two male Founders with a_ Look _.  Though she was gentle, she possessed a core of steel, steel that gleamed in her blue eyes and on her face.  The Healer’s red hair framed her face as she remarked tartly, “Now that you two have sorted that out, perhaps you can turn your attention to what happens now?  Conté will not take our defiance of his messenger lying down.”_

_“No, he will not,” Rowena agreed, concern in her dark eyes as she pushed her long raven hair back and idly tucked it behind her ears.  “Godric, you must send a message to your cousin, Cináed, at once.  If you do not, Conté’s men will be able to imply to the King that we have broken our agreement to remain neutral.”_

_“I shall write it yet this eve, Rowena,” Godric promised, before thudding his fist on the table.  “But we_ must _take the fight to Conté and quickly.  If he is bold enough to come here, then he is gaining in strength and allies.  It may not be long before even our strength is not enough to stop him.”_

_“Agreed,” Rowena murmured.  She looked down a moment as if steeling herself.  “Godric, Salazar, you both must go after Conté.  Tomorrow.”_

_“But the students,” Salazar protested._

_“This is more important,” Rowena insisted.  “We cannot afford for the two of you to split your time and attention as we planned; I cannot believe we even_ considered _such a foolish strategy.”  Grimly, she faced her friends.  “Helga and I will keep the school running and the students safe while the two of you hunt this monster down.”_

_The two men traded looks and Salazar spoke.  “Rowena, what if he attacks Hogwarts?”_

_“Let him come,” Helga hissed angrily.  “He will see that Hogwarts is no easy target.”_

_“No,” Godric disagreed at once, shaking his head.  “I will add a request to my letter to Cináed that he send several wizards of the Royal Court to Hogwarts to aid in Hogwarts’ defense until Conté is dealt with.  This I will request as our condition for assisting in this task though we are bound to remain neutral.”_

* * * * *

_By the end of the following week, it was done.  Hogwarts was protected both by its impressive wards and a full complement of Royal Wizards.  Moreover, Salazar’s discreet tracking charm on the wizard who’d entered Hogwarts had yielded a location, deep in a forest thought to be impassible by both man and beast.  Godric and Salazar set out on horseback, determined to bring an end to the threat of Tristan Conté._

* * * * *

Giles sighed and rose from his table to retrieve another drink.  He opted for one of the sodas Roy had insisted he keep in his cold-box after trying pumpkin juice.  As the wizard popped the soda open and drank, he thought hard, sorting through the information he’d gleaned thus far.  He was getting more details, but he didn’t have the whole picture.  Not yet.

* * * * *

_Godric and Salazar entered the forest on foot, reluctant to bring their mounts into such treacherous territory; the forest’s terrain was too uncertain to ride on at any speed, making it more likely that the horses would injure themselves as they moved.  It was, therefore, much safer to walk._

_The two wizards moved cautiously through the trees, searching for any and all signs of their enemies.  The longer they searched, the more oppressive the forest felt, but the men were careful to keep from reacting._

_“They are close,” Salazar murmured._

_Godric nodded once, slipping his wand into his hand.  Glancing back, he saw Salazar idly draw both his wand and one of his throwing knives.  The redhead switched his wand to his left hand and rested his right on the hilt of his sword even as he moved around a tree and skirted a small clearing._

_“_ Akwele _!”_

_Godric leapt sideways as the green spell shot past and struck a patch of undergrowth behind him; the undergrowth turned to ash.  His sword rang as he drew it and the wizard dropped into his fighting stance.  “_ Reducto _,” he hissed, sending a bolt of blue at his opponent._

_Salazar Apparated, ending up next to their initial attacker as the man twisted away from Godric’s opening spell.  Before the wizard could react, Salazar’s throwing knife flew into his heart.  The two friends had no time to celebrate, however, as five more wizards arrived in a gust of wind and magic, hurling offensive spells, most in Latin, with a few Old Religion spells mixed in, at them._

_Godric threw up a shield that held long enough for the two to retreat to the relative cover of the trees.  From there, Godric and Salazar traded looks.  Skilled as they were, they were no match for wizards wielding the Old Religion.  Even so, to give up was anathema._

_“I’ll get their attention, Sal,” Godric murmured._

_Salazar scowled, but nodded reluctantly.  “If you die, I shall never speak to you again,” the raven-haired man declared, a fierce glitter in silver eyes._

_“Noted.”_

_Godric charged out from cover, flinging as many curses as he could and never staying in one place.  Cutting Curses sliced into trees, knocking branches down on the attacking wizards; Reductor Curses struck small stone outcroppings, spraying shrapnel everywhere; anything Godric could think of to get attention and_ keep _that attention, he did, while also dodging the return spells furiously._

_In the background, Salazar made his own move, Apparating into the thick of the enemy to cast his own destructive spells.  Each and every spell thrown hit its target; each knife he hurled drew blood; between the two wizards, the enemy was falling, regardless of their superior magic.  Moreover, the longer the fight lasted, the less the enemy used the Old Religion, as if the attacking wizards didn’t possess the magical reserves necessary to use the ancient spells for long._

_“_ Enough! _”  A man’s voice cut through the small glade in a battlefield roar.  Wind whipped in the center of the clearing and the speaker stepped out, dark eyes flashing as he took in the fact that all six of the wizards sent against Gryffindor and Slytherin were dead._

_Godric took full advantage of the man’s apparent distraction to hurl a Bone-Breaking curse at his chest; Salazar flung a Cutting Curse from his own position._

_A smirk flashed across the newcomer’s face before he shouted, “_ Gescildan _!”  The two curses struck a glittering barrier of pale, washed out gold.  The wizard tossed his head, disdain in his stance as his dark locks flew around his shoulders.  One hand lifted towards Salazar.  “_ Oferswinge **(2)** _!”_

_Salazar was hurled backwards into a tree, his head cracking against the trunk; he collapsed in a heap as Godric bellowed challenge and outrage both.  The furious redhead charged, his sword shimmering and hungry for blood._

_“_ Ahatian **(3)** _,” was the almost lazy spell as the stranger turned towards the charging Godric._

_The hilt of Godric’s sword turned red as heat surged within it; Godric dropped it with an involuntary yelp of pain.  Before he could bring his wand to bear, the new wizard was inside his guard and swinging a fist into his jaw._

_Godric crashed to the ground, struggling to retain consciousness.  A low, amused chuckle came from the wizard who’d bested him.  “Such a pity; I had_ so _looked forward to this fight, but neither of you were even worth the bother.”_

_“See if you think that with my sword through your chest,” Godric spat, twisting on the ground to bring his wand up._

_“_ Onbregdan **(4)** _.”  Godric’s wand wrenched itself away and flew up to the wizard’s hand.  “How the mighty fall in the face of the Old Religion,” the man mocked.  “_ Gehaeftan **(5)** _.”  Ropes materialized around Godric, pulling tight around the wizard and trapping his arms against his sides._

_Godric snarled, straining against the ropes and summoning his magic for a concentrated effort; he could not surrender, he_ could not _.  Around his wrists, the ropes began to fray as fire heated them from within._

_“Hmmm, I see you are not_ completely _useless,” the wizard murmured.  Kneeling, the wizard smirked again.  One hand hovered over Godric’s face.  “_ Swefe nu **(6)** _.”_

_Godric tried to fight, but the spell pulled him down into slumber too quickly._

* * * * *

_The redheaded wizard woke to a fierce headache, a crick in his neck, and sore shoulders.  Groaning, he tried to shift to a moderately more comfortable position, but the ropes around him tightened at the first movement and pulled him back against a set of bars.  Likewise, Godric’s attempt to roll his shoulders only made the bindings around his wrists contract, yanking his shoulders back even more and drawing an involuntary hiss of pain from him._

_“Godric.”_

_Unable to turn, Godric leaned his head back against the bars.  “Salazar?”  A vision of Salazar flying back into a tree trunk flashed through his mind and Godric shuddered.  “Are you all right?”_

_“I am well,” Salazar murmured.  “Your right hand looks burned.”_

_“He burned me with my own sword hilt,” Godric rumbled unhappily.  “And took my wand.”_

_“Yes,” Salazar hissed.  “Mine is also gone.”  Silence hung between the two men._

_Godric broke it.  “Have you heard anything?”_

_“We have not found their main hideout, if that is what you are asking, but this does seem to be the location from which they’ve been launching their attacks on the nearby villages,” Salazar observed shrewdly.  “The man who captured us is their leader, a lieutenant of some sort to Conté.”_

_“Who is he?” Godric growled, his eyes hardening._

_“If the name his followers are using is accurate, Alexander Tirragen.”_

_“Awake ar’ ye?”_

_Godric flinched at the unknown voice, whose owner he could not see so long as he was tied to the bars of his cell.  It was not the voice of his attacker, but that was no comfort when, for all Godric knew, every last wizard in this place was knowledgeable in the Old Religion._

_“Ye will get some rest while ye can if’n ye is smart,” the unknown mocked.  “ ‘Is Majesty will be ‘ere soon e’ough to deliver ‘is judgment on ye.”  Bootsteps receded, then paused.  “Make peace wit’ the gods, ye traitors; ‘Is Majesty isna happy with ye.”  Jeering laughter floated after the guard as he departed._

_Godric licked dry lips.  “Salazar?” he questioned carefully._

_“I am as bound as you are, Godric,” Salazar replied regretfully.  “Perhaps your affinity?”_

_“Perhaps,” Godric agreed, summoning his magic.  Sweat beaded on the redhead’s brow as he concentrated, focusing his magic on the ropes that held his wrists tight.  With agonizing slowness, they burned; it was close to an hour before Godric could pull his wrists apart, snapping the last strands of rope._

_Before Godric could turn his attention to the next set of ropes, Salazar inhaled sharply and Godric felt someone next to him.  There had been no sound, just a small whisper of wind and the sense of no longer being alone.  “Hold still,” a female voice instructed.  Godric felt the female’s hands touch his body right next to the clump of ropes keeping him tight to the bars.  Then the female sighed and Godric heard her draw a blade.  The blade slipped under the ropes and carefully, achingly cut through them._

_“There,” the woman whispered, pushing the severed ropes away.  “Easy there, sir knight; those ropes drain your strength even as they bind.”_

_Duly warned, Godric levered himself up to a sitting position as the woman turned away and whispered something over the cell door; it opened soundlessly.  Curious, Godric watched as the dark blonde woman made her way to Salazar’s cell.  Her braided hair fell past her shoulders and Godric could see a gleam of metal in the braid, as though she’d braided a spike strip into it.  She appeared to be about a head shorter than Godric himself, slim, and graceful; even as she crept as quietly as possible in the darkness, Godric could see that she was beautiful._

_Salazar was far more wary of the stranger than Godric, but neither man had much of a choice but to trust the mystery woman who knelt next to the raven-haired wizard and cut him loose.  Godric forced himself upright, hissing as his burned right hand came in contact with the ground, and cautiously edged out of his cell and over to Salazar’s.  The woman pulled Salazar up on his feet and, as she supported him, turned her head, her pale blue-gray eyes meeting Godric’s; Godric sucked in a startled breath as he took in the fact that her eyes were icy and ghost-like, the effect amplified by the darkness around them._

_“Tristan comes tonight, sir knights,” she informed them quietly.  “I can get you away before he comes, but we must go now and you will have to trust me.”_

_“We do not even know your name,” Salazar countered from his position against the bars of his cell; despite his brave words, he cradled his head, clearly in a great deal of pain._

_For a moment, the woman looked caught off guard, then she smiled and gave Salazar a wink.  “I am Isolde; will that do, sir knight?”_

_“It will do,” Godric decided, concern for Salazar rising; his friend only let himself show pain when it was excruciating.  “Which way, milady?”_

_A soft chortle of laughter spilled from Isolde.  “This way.”_

_She leapt up, her form_ blurring _and shifting.  Automatically, Godric brought one arm forward to act as an impromptu perch.  A phoenix landed on his outstretched arm, chirping thanks._

_The phoenix was as dark as the shadows around them and her feathers were edged with a glint of dark blonde, giving her a rather striking look, even in the poor light.  Her head angled around and she gave a soft warning sound, urging Godric to hurry._

_Without hesitation, Godric grabbed Salazar’s arm and pulled his friend in close.  Fire danced around them and pulled them away from the dungeon with shouts of fury echoing in their wake._

* * * * *

Giles’ jaw dropped as he read the account of the phoenix Animagus rescuing the two Hogwarts Founders from Conté’s dungeon.  Stunned, he let the diary thud down to the table and stared at his notes; they blurred in his vision as his eyes unfocused.  _A Wild Mage…they were rescued from a Wild Mage Dark Lord by_ another _Wild Mage._

The Auror had assumed that since Wild Mages were so rare, there hadn’t _been_ any other Wild Mages around to counter Conté’s actions, but, according to Gryffindor’s diary, there _had_ been another Wild Mage.  At least one.  So if a Wild Mage had helped to stop Tristan Conté, why then, were Wild Mages shunned and mistreated?  They _hadn’t_ stood idly by, they’d helped stop the Wild Mage Dark Lord, so why…?

Onasi swallowed hard.  He’d wanted answers – and he was getting them – but even so, none of this really told him how to _fix_ the problem…or if it even _could_ be fixed.

 

[2] Old English for ‘to thrust through’

[3] Old English for ‘to become hot’

[4] Old English for ‘to bring’

[5] Old English for ‘to restrain’

[6] Old English for ‘send to sleep now’


	5. Impossible is for Sissies

Greg stared at his constable, hoping against hope that he hadn’t heard the man right.  “You have what?”

Wordy hadn’t looked up even once since he’d shown up at the barn late in the day; at his boss’s bewildered question, the big man’s shoulders hunched, somehow managing to make Wordy look small in his chair.  “I have Parkinson’s Disease, Sarge.”

Silence fell, neither man all that sure of how to break it.  Finally, Greg asked, “What are your options, Wordy?”

The brunet snuck a look up at his boss’s face.  “Um, for now, I’m going on a treatment plan, which should get the symptoms under control, but…”

Blast.  Greg sighed, rubbing his forehead.  “Let me guess.  Magicals don’t _get_ Parkinson’s Disease.”

“Hole in one, Sarge,” Wordy quipped weakly.  The constable’s jaw tightened and Greg pretended he didn’t see Wordy forcing back a tear or two.  “Even if this works, Sarge, I can’t stay on Team One forever.”

“Well, none of us can,” Greg teased quietly, getting the hoped-for half-smile.  “Wordy, as long as this medication works, you’ve got a place on this team.”

Wordy’s shoulders straightened a touch and he finally met Greg’s eyes.  “Thanks, Sarge,” he whispered.  Gray eyes dropped away again.  “But, um, I should probably start looking at a transfer…”

“Let’s not rush into anything,” Greg chided.  “You’ve only just gotten this diagnosis and it’s too early to make any permanent decisions.”  The Sergeant offered a rueful look.  “We haven’t even made any decisions about the Auror Division yet, much less where we go from here, Wordy.”

“Copy that, Sarge,” Wordy acknowledged, understanding his boss’s point; it was too soon, too raw to make decisions that couldn’t be undone.

Greg tapped the table, thinking a moment.  “Go home, Wordy; take the rest of today and be back tomorrow bright and early.  We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

“Got it, Sarge.”

The SRU Sergeant watched his constable leave, feet dragging and discouragement draping his frame.  Sooner or later, he knew, they wouldn’t have a choice; Team One couldn’t afford to have a medically compromised team member…and they both knew it.

* * * * *

“There’s nothing they can do?” Alanna asked plaintively, raw disbelief on her face.

Greg sighed to himself; even now, a part of his two pureblooded _nipotes_ still clung to the idea that magic could fix almost anything.  And why not?  They’d been raised with that idea, after all, and a lifetime of belief wasn’t something that could be shaken overnight…or even with a few years living on the tech side of the fence.

Even _with_ all the time they’d spent in the tech world, so _many_ times, magic had come through in a pinch and saved the day.  So, yes, intellectually the teenagers knew that magic couldn’t fix everything, but that was hard to fully accept so long as magic kept snatching victory from the jaws of defeat.

“I’m sorry, _mia nipote_ , but no, there’s nothing the Healers can do,” Greg confirmed quietly, his own heart – and voice – aching.  “Wizards don’t get Parkinson’s, so they’ve never researched it magic-side, I’m afraid.”

“And the doctors can’t cure it either?” Lance questioned from the other side, harkening back to his sister’s aneurysm and how the tech-side doctors had succeeded where the Healers _hadn’t_.

Parker simply shook his head, a sinking feeling in his stomach.  Losing a member of his team, even if only to a transfer, was going to hurt like heck and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.  “It won’t happen right away, but Wordy won’t be able to work on Team One for much longer.  Even the best medication can only slow this down, not stop it.”

The two nodded glumly, retreating to their rooms without another word; Greg watched them go and, when he was sure they were gone, let his fist thump against the wall; a gryphon’s keen welled up inside.  The truth was, in a way, _he’d_ expected magic to save the day, too.

* * * * *

Alanna flopped down on her bed, ready for a good cry over the idea of losing one of her favorite ‘uncles’ from the SRU.  Already, tears stung in violet eyes and she sniffled, trying to focus on the positives.  Uncle Wordy wasn’t dead, he was just…sick…and never going to get better.  A soft bird-like whimper rose from her chest.  It wasn’t fair…

A knock jerked the redhead around with a fierce scowl.  From outside, her brother called, “Lemme know when you’re done sulking and ready to get to work.”

_Get to work?_   Alanna pushed herself off her bed and went to her door, cracking it open.  “What are you talking about?” she demanded.

There was a gleam in her brother’s eyes, gold glittering just under sapphire depths.  “If you wanna give up, go ahead, but _I_ think impossible is for sissies.”

The girl huffed.  “You think _we_ can do what the Healers and doctors _can’t_?”

“I think we can give it a bloody good try,” Lance retorted, not backing down an inch.  “ _They_ don’t have Wild Magic, do they?  _They_ don’t use the Old Magic, do they?  And they stick with what they know; _we_ can think outside the box, ‘cause we’re just amateurs.”

Alanna considered that, tugging at her still short hair.  “But Parkinson’s Disease is modern day, isn’t it?” she questioned.  “I don’t think they had it back when the Old Religion was still being used, did they?”

“So there’s no direct spell.”  Lance shrugged as if that didn’t matter.  “We just find another way to do it.”

“You already have a plan.”

Lance walked over to his room and looked over his shoulder with a smirk.  “Yeah, I do.  Already called Mindy and told her to grab anything to do with Old Magic and healing from the Manor’s library.”

“But…”

One shoulder hiked.  “Maybe you’re right and there’s no direct spell, but it can’t hurt to look.”

Alanna tilted her head to the side, then nodded.  Lance was right; they didn’t know until they looked and making assumptions at the moment was _not_ a good idea.  “We should research Parkinson’s,” she suggested.  “If we can understand it better, maybe we can find a more effective treatment.”

Her brother paused, thinking her suggestion over.  Tentatively, he offered up, “I was also thinking, maybe, you could use Ancient Runes to make a healing bracelet until we find something better?”

“Like, something that would control the symptoms?” Alanna inquired, trailing her brother into his room.

“I guess,” Lance conceded.  “You understand that stuff more than I do, sis, but if we can figure out a short-term solution, that buys us time to find a long-term one.”

As he spoke, Mindy popped in with a stack of Old Magic tomes and set them on Lance’s desk before popping away again.  Lance picked up the first one and held it out to Alanna, but she didn’t take it.

“I think I can make a bracelet like that, but I’d need to research Parkinson’s and my Ancient Rune books to make it,” she informed her brother.  “ _You’d_ have to do all the Old Magic research yourself until the bracelet’s done.”

For a moment, Lance’s face fell in open dismay, then, quite suddenly, his shoulders straightened and he nodded once, sharply and firmly.  “Copy that.”  The teenager turned back to the books and hefted them off his desk to his bed so he could reorganize them.  Without turning, he added, “Get going, sis; we’re on the clock.”

Alanna drew in a breath, holding it for a second.  Then she whirled and hustled back to her room to find a pen, notebook, and her laptop.  Lance was right; they hadn’t an instant to lose.

* * * * *

Lance sighed; the downside to having Mindy bring all the Old Magic tomes from the library was that he couldn’t use the library’s search spell to narrow his focus to a few books.  Instead, he was tediously reading each one of the spellbooks to find out what its main topic was and then moving on.  He sighed, smacking his current book down on the ‘discard’ stack; he was _fairly_ certain that combat magic wasn’t going to help with a cure.

The teen turned to grab the next book and felt his shoulders sink at the stacks waiting for him.  Grimly, he pulled the top book off the closest stack and opened it up, paging past the first couple illustrations to find the first page of spells.  He settled down, reading carefully, scanning for any _hint_ of healing magic.

At first, his mental ‘ears’ perked up; while not about healing magic, the book was discussing the use of crystals.  It took almost half the book before he realized the crystals were meant to be used to anchor other spells, mostly runic spells and the like.  Considering, Lance put the book on a new pile, to be passed off to his sister when she was done with her research and the healing bracelet.  Maybe the crystals could be used to strengthen the eventual healing spell?

The next several books were quickly discarded – more combat spells, building spells, a darker tome about manipulating dreams – but finally, Lance located a healing spellbook.  Eagerly, he dove into the pages, searching feverishly for anything that looked promising.  His enthusiasm dimmed with each page that discussed the gory details of healing battlefield wounds mixed with banal interludes on remedies for easing the ache of old injuries.  Near the back of the book, on pages that were messier and looked more like a healer’s private notes, Lance paused, examining the information closely.

“ _‘Most perplexing to the healer or physician is the shaking palsy; it afflicts only those without magic and is usually found in the elderly, though I personally have observed the affliction in one far younger than most sufferers.  A number of treatments have been attempted over the years, but none has been successful thus far.  A number of healers and court physicians have gathered in Camelot to discuss this illness and perhaps begin to formulate a remedy.  His Majesty, King Uther Pendragon has invited those so inclined to the eventual feast for the newborn heir, once he or she is born to Her Majesty, Queen Ygraine.’_ ”

Lance flipped past the small account, hoping for more, and slumped as he realized it was the book’s final entry.  He slumped even further as he realized what had likely happened to all those healers and physicians.  With Queen Ygraine’s death, most of them had probably died as the first victims of the Great Purge.  And after _that_ , the magical community had had much more important things to worry about than curing an illness that affected only non-magicals.  If there _had_ been a cure with Old Magic, it was long lost to time, fire, and war.

Sighing, the teen sat up and placed the healing tome on top of the crystal spellbook.  Thoughtful, he crossed his arms and stared at the wall, thinking hard.  He could keep looking – and _would_ – but he had a nasty feeling that he’d just found the answer; namely, that there _was_ no answer in the Old Magic.

Almost idly, his hands found a small box on his bed stand and he opened it up again, pulling the mithril bracelet within out and tracing the smooth metal with his fingers.  It was a magnificent, costly gift and the teen wished he could send a thank you note to the dwarves who’d forged the bracelet, but he still had yet to puzzle out _why_ they had sent it.  They’d gone out of their way to tell Emrys…Merlin…that the bracelet had a purpose, but Lance still wasn’t sure _what_ that purpose was.

After several minutes of rubbing and thinking, Lance looked down at the bracelet and sighed.  “What am I meant to do with you?” he murmured to the silent metal.  Then he slid the bracelet back in its box and went back to his search.


	6. Battle of Corus

Giles broke off from his reading to pace around his living room, sifting through the facts he’d accumulated thus far.  While it was true that he didn’t have the full picture, he could guess where the entries were going.  Gryffindor and Slytherin had worked with the mystery Wild Mage to bring down Tristan Conté.  What he couldn’t figure out was why, in the name of Merlin, were Wild Mages _feared_ if they had _helped_ stop the _one_ rogue in their history?  It made absolutely no sense to the Auror.  Unless…

Reluctantly, he turned back to the innocent looking diary.  There was only one way to find out, but he dreaded it; had he been wrong?  Had he been wrong about Wild Magic, wrong to defy his world’s laws?  And who had sent the diary in the first place?  Unable to answer any of those questions, Onasi walked back to the table and picked up the diary, flipping it open to the bookmark.

* * * * *

_Fire swept away from the trio to reveal a small, but comfortable room.  Salazar staggered, forcing Godric to focus on his friend as the dark phoenix back-winged off his arm and_ blurred _.  Slim female hands gripped Salazar’s other arm and guided him towards the room’s door.  “Come,” she murmured to Godric, “I will tend to your hand once I have seen to your friend.”_

_Remembering Salazar’s impact with an unfriendly tree trunk, Godric cringed and hurried after Isolde, though he was exquisitely careful to use his good left hand instead of his right.  Isolde led them up a set of stairs to a bedroom with two beds already prepared and waiting.  She settled Salazar on the bed and held up three fingers._

_“How many?”_

_Instead of answering, Salazar glared as best he could; Godric swallowed at his friend’s uneven pupils.  “I.  Am.  Fine,” Salazar growled._

_There was a moment of silence, then Isolde shrugged and turned to Godric.  “Your hand,” she ordered._

_Godric stifled his reaction to her turning away from Salazar without helping him and held his hand out.  “_ Háligan swelan **(7)** _,” she whispered, resting two fingers on the back of his hand.  The throbbing pain in Godric’s hand all but vanished as Isolde’s magic curled around his hand, soothing the burn away._

_When the spell faded, Isolde turned to a table Godric hadn’t even noticed until then.  She picked up a small jar and twisted back towards the redhead; without asking, she grabbed his hand – gently – and smeared the salve in the jar over what was left of the burns.  The rest of the pain vanished as she coated Godric’s hand in what looked like Burn Paste._

_Once done with the salve, Isolde put the jar back down on the table and flicked her gaze upwards, pinning Godric with her ghost-like eyes.  “How does that feel?”_

_“Much better,” Godric replied._

_He would have continued, except Salazar abruptly keeled over, only to be caught by Isolde; her dark blonde braid whipped through the air as she whirled towards her second patient.  Shaking her head, Isolde maneuvered Salazar’s limp form to lay prone on the bed.  “Stubborn idiot,” she hissed under her breath._

_“Can you help him?” Godric questioned anxiously._

_Rather than answer, Isolde reached out, resting a hand on Salazar’s forehead.  “_ Thurhhaele _,” she murmured.  As the observer rather than the patient, Godric watched with intense interest as ebony magic swirled around Salazar; it was the same shade as her phoenix Animagus form.  As the magic sank into Salazar, Godric saw the younger man’s breathing ease._

_“He will be fine,” Isolde informed Godric without looking up.  “You may sleep in the other bed or I can show you to another room, sir knight.”_

_“I will stay here, thank you,” Godric replied immediately, though he hesitated.  “Do you…”_

_Blue-gray eyes shifted to Godric when he stopped.  “Yes?”_

_Steeling himself, Godric asked, “Do you know how to cast Dream-Catchers?”_

_Isolde’s gaze softened at his anxious look at Salazar.  “I will do so, sir knight,” she promised, already drawing an elegantly carved wand.  “Will you need some as well?”_

_Though he wanted to say ‘yes’, Godric was well aware that he still didn’t really have any idea of who Isolde was.  “No, thank you, milady,” he declined; his eyes flicked down to Salazar and he considered an instant.  “Actually, I think I will take your offer of another room.”_

* * * * *

_The next morning, Godric made his way back to Salazar’s room, praying that his friend was all right, that he hadn’t made a mistake by trusting their mysterious rescuer.  Inside Salazar’s room, he halted in surprise; Isolde was humming to herself as she sat on the unused bed and tended to a throwing knife Godric recognized as Salazar’s.  In the light, she was even more beautiful than she’d looked in the dark shadows of Tirragen’s dungeon._

_Her blue-gray eyes lifted from her task and she offered a tentative smile.  “Good morn, sir knight.”  She spoke quietly, to keep from disturbing Salazar, and set the cleaned and sharpened knife down on the table in front of her._

_With a start, Godric saw two wands set apart from the knives; he swept forward, shock and relief flooding him as he lifted his wand and returned it to its sheath on his forearm.  Keeping his own voice down, he asked, “You retrieved our weapons?”_

_“Of course,” Isolde replied, picking up another throwing knife.  “I could hardly leave them to be pawed over by Tirragen’s thugs.”  Another smile flashed at Godric.  “Your swords are downstairs with my brother, Elyan.  I know swords, but Elyan is a master blacksmith.”_

_Godric bowed, ever so slightly.  “We are in your debt, my lady.”  He hesitated; challenging her after she had helped them felt…unchivalrous…but he still had no idea_ why _she had helped them or what she wanted from them._

_Her eyes turned sad, as if she could read his thoughts, and she turned back to Salazar’s knife, gently coaxing a nick off the edge.  “You mean to stop Tristan,” she announced without looking up from her task._

_The wizard stiffened, but did not deny her statement._

_“My brother was not best pleased with my actions yesterday,” Isolde continued.  “He reminds me that I do not have Tristan’s raw power, nor the experience he has built up for years.”  Her eyes narrowed and Godric could tell that they were turning icy and ghost-like.  “It is true that the last time I crossed blades with Tristan, he defeated me with ease, so perhaps Elyan is simply afraid for my safety.”  Her gaze shifted to Godric, pinning him in place.  “But I cannot stand aside and allow Tristan to bring down everything our family has stood for since time immemorial.”_

_“Family?” Godric questioned sharply._

_Her smile was sardonic.  “He is my cousin, sir knight,” Isolde explained simply._

_Godric’s frown turned thoughtful.  “Then perhaps you might answer a question, my lady.”  The ice in her eyes faded as she arched a brow and waited.  “_ Does _Conté have a claim to royalty?”_

_Isolde considered his question for some moments as she continued to work.  “He does and he does not,” she finally replied.  “It is true that our family is descended from the First Ruling Line of Narnia, but it is also true that our family lost that status long ago.”  Her smile was wry and sad.  “The Four Kings and Queens of Narnia, led by Aslan, overthrew the White Witch who was our enemy.  They ruled Narnia wisely and well, sir knight, until they vanished to from whence they came.”  She paused, then added, “And now the Third Ruling Line governs our homeland, as the Lion wills.  ‘Tis likely that they will rule till Narnia is no more.”_

_Godric leaned back on his heels.  “So, your answer is that while your family once held royal status, it no longer does?”_

_Isolde inclined her head.  “For so long as our family lives, we are still of the First Line, but the Kings and Queens of Narnia are deemed so by the Lion and no other.”  Her expression turned bitter.  “In any case, Tristan’s actions shame the gift Aslan granted our family; we are meant to_ protect _, never to harm.”  Ghost eyes snagged Godric’s again.  “Any King or Queen of Narnia must know this above all: We are first in every desperate attack, last in every desperate retreat, and, when times of famine come, we must wear the finest clothes and laugh louder over the scantiest meal than any other in the land.”_

_“And yet you wield the Old Religion,” Salazar observed, his silver eyes flinty._

_Godric was impressed that though Isolde was caught off guard, she merely turned her head to the man on the bed.  “My family wields Old Magic, not the Old Religion,” she refuted.  “Though, I confess, it is easy to mistake for the Old Religion.”  Her eyes turned intent.  “Even after the fall of Camelot, we have taught others how to use the Old Magic; those you fought were taught by Tristan, I have no doubt.”_

_“They used more Latin spells than Old Religion spells,” Godric observed gruffly, taking his chance to scan Salazar; the younger wizard looked much better than he had the night before._

_“Yes,” Isolde agreed.  “The Old Magic is more…power hungry, if you will.  While Tristan’s followers_ can _use the Old Magic, they do not have the magical reserves to use it for long.”  Tossing her head, she added, “If Tristan had had the patience to wait until his men were more practiced, they would not have such limits, but my cousin has always been more impatient than he should be.”  Her eyes gleamed.  “We will use that against him.”_

_“ ‘We’?” Salazar demanded at once._

_A cunning expression spread over Isolde’s face.  “But of course,” she mocked, “Surely your second round against Alexander Tirragen will go better than the first.”  The two men traded looks at that, remembering how easily they’d been taken down.  “And naturally, my cousin, far more experienced than Alex in the Old Magic, will fall just as easily in the face of the greatest Latin Magic the two of you can bring to bear.”_

_“Enough,” Salazar interrupted.  “You’ve made your point, milady.”_

_“Have I?” Isolde questioned, looking up at Godric.  “Or should I add that the two of you have_ no _idea where my cousin is?”_

_“Very well,” Godric surrendered.  “But, perhaps, breakfast and our swords first?”_

_A smile spread across her face and she laughed in delight.  “Certainly, sir knights.”_

* * * * *

_Isolde led the way through a small tunnel, deep underneath a small trading town called Corus.  The witch’s sword was in her hand and her wand gleamed in her off hand.  Behind her, Godric’s own sword was at the ready and Salazar’s rapier guarded their rear.  A small globe of light hovered above the trio, cast and maintained by Isolde._

_When they reached what looked like a dead end, Isolde sheathed her wand and murmured an Old Magic spell at the rocks in front of them.  One rock slid upwards, revealing a small passageway.  Another word and the light above them vanished.  “This is our way in,” Isolde informed them.  “But it cannot be our way out.  Do you understand?”_

_Godric nodded once.  “This is not our first fight against Dark Wizards, Isolde,” he asserted._

_“True,” Isolde acknowledged.  Without another word, she ducked through the gap in the rocks; the two men followed.  The first guard was just on the other side of the tunnel; Isolde’s sword found his heart before he could call out in alarm._

_“As we planned,” Godric growled, taking the lead.  Isolde smirked as Salazar moved to be right in front of her, his expression firm.  Just outside the first room, they found a trio of off-duty guards; two swords and a knife flashed, bringing down the guards without a sound._

_A cry rang out nonetheless; Godric jerked around to see another guard, white-faced and shocked at his fellows’ deaths.  A Bone-Breaker sailed across the distance; the guard cast an Old Magic shield, but the curse shattered it, leaving the guard open to Salazar’s follow up_ Reducto _._

_With the alarm sounded, the trio found themselves fighting for every scrap of ground they took.  Isolde joined the magical battle, wielding Old Magic with precision and grace, mixing sorcery and sword without so much as a single misstep in the deadly dance around her.  Whenever her male companions faltered, she was there, cutting the enemy down with a ruthlessness that reminded Godric of Salazar’s early days._

_As the group fought their way through the dark wizards, the quake caught all of them off guard, hurling both friend and foe to the ground.  Isolde cried out in shocked recognition and raised both hands.  “_ Eorthe ac stanas, hiersumaþ me.  Deteon ne forcwýsan gúþwineas **(8)** _,” she yelled above the wails of falling men and the crash and crack of stone._

_Godric scrambled to his feet, astonished to note that the earth beneath himself, Isolde, and Salazar had steadied.  The two wizards traded looks, understanding without words that Isolde was now helpless in combat; she had to hold the spell.  Red and black closed ranks, Salazar switching to his rapier instead of his throwing knives and usual Apparition tactics.  Grimly, they cut through their opponents, taking advantage of the fact that the earth still moaned and writhed beneath Conté’s people._

_A feral roar heralded the arrival of a familiar raven-haired man.  Godric snarled and leapt to meet the man, his sword flashing in his grip.  Tirragen’s sword met Godric’s, hilt to hilt as he strained to hold Godric off long enough to use his magic.  But Godric had no intention of letting him; Gryffindor twisted and heaved, sending Tirragen’s sword flying, blade first, into the ceiling.  He brought his sword up._

_“Godric, move!” Salazar yelled._

_Godric threw himself sideways and watched in shock as the quakes broke the ceiling, sending Tirragen’s sword straight down; Tirragen had time for a single cry before the blade struck.  Godric swallowed harshly.  “Let’s move!” he called, flicking a glance at Isolde in silent question._

_She grimaced; Salazar sheathed his wand and rapier and hurried to her, retrieving the staff he’d dropped to fight more effectively.  Without pausing, he slung Isolde over his shoulder and carried her after Godric.  Godric took over the lion’s share of the fighting as Salazar bore Isolde, his face growing more and more pinched as his crippled leg protested the unexpected demands Salazar was making of it._

_The quakes around them intensified, giving Godric an undeniable advantage over the unprotected wizards he fought; Isolde’s magic gleamed around her as she grimly held her spell in spite of the jostling Salazar was giving her.  “We must hurry,” she gasped out.  “I can hold the spell, but the longer my magic and Tristan’s fight, the more likely that we will cause an even worse earthquake.  The earth has its own ways of dealing with such pressure.”_

_Godric growled in frustration, but picked up his pace, taking advantage of each and every opening he saw; Salazar shifted Isolde enough to draw his wand again and add to Godric’s spellfire.  Together, the two wizards battered their way into the lair’s inner sanctum._

_Inside, Salazar let Isolde down, aware that he couldn’t fight with her on his back much longer.  The man in the center of the room was similar to Isolde, but exuded a darkness that neither Godric nor Salazar had seen with Isolde.  His eyes were blue, his hair a brown so dark as to be almost black, and his height was on par with Godric’s.  Both hair and beard were neatly trimmed and the sorcerer wore a royal blue robe with silver trim._

_“So,” the sorcerer mocked, “The_ great _Earl Gryffindor and Baron Slytherin have come for me.”  His head cocked to the side.  “Tell me, great ones, would you have gotten this far without the lovely_ traitor _at your side?”_

_“I am not the traitor, Tristan,” Isolde retorted, her magic flaring a deep ebony.  “You turned on_ everything _our family believes in.  I cannot,_ will _not, permit it to continue!”_

_“Then you shall die as one of them!” Conté roared, his hand whipping forward._

_His magic erupted in a wave of solid orange; the wave morphed into a wicked looking blade as it flew.  Isolde gasped in shock as it embedded itself in her chest; she fell sideways as Salazar howled dismay and defiance in equal measure, throwing himself at Conté.  Slytherin’s rapier met Conté’s dagger and Salazar dodged to the side, his rapier slashing through the tendon at the base of Conté’s thumb.  Conté’s dagger fell from a hand suddenly unable to hold it and Salazar followed up, his blade ramming through his opponent’s chest._

_Godric dealt with the last few minions as his friend practically flew to Isolde’s side.  The redhead followed, his heart sinking at the lost look on Salazar’s face; it was not the first time Salazar had lost those he cared about, but usually it took much longer for Salazar to warm up to people.  Isolde had cut through all of Salazar’s defenses; never once had she treated him as inferior, as a cripple, or as a dark wizard, she’d gone out of her way to clean and sharpen every one of Salazar’s throwing knives, and she’d respected him enough to let_ him _dictate terms until he truly needed help._

_Salazar pulled the woman up, almost crying as he took in the damage Conté’s spell had done; she was dying and nothing either wizard could do would stop her death.  “Please,” she whispered, “Take me home.  Take me back to Elyan.”_

_“We will,” Godric promised, grief in his face as the life faded from her eyes.  His gaze turned to Salazar.  “We will,” he whispered._

 

[7] Old English for ‘Heal burn’

[8] Old English for ‘Earth and stones, obey me.  Do not shake war comrades.’


	7. Epilogue

_“You must keep her secret,” Elyan begged, his face contorted with fresh grief as his magic finished creating Isolde’s headstone.  “_ Our _secret.”_

_“Why?” Godric questioned.  “If the people knew that Conté was stopped by another Wild Mage, they would rally to you, mourning with you for her loss.”  By his side, Salazar inclined his head in clear agreement._

_Elyan looked up at Godric, sorrow and tears shimmering in his gaze.  “And how long before they turn on my family, Earl Gryffindor?  Perhaps not in my generation, but eventually, sentiment will turn, as it always does, and my descendants will be left to the nonexistent mercy of a mob.”  His smile was bitter and angry.  “Tristan’s actions have destroyed our reputation; it will be centuries before Wild Mages will be trusted again, if ever.”_

_“Your reputation will not be destroyed if you do not hide your sister’s actions,” Salazar hissed in fury.  “You ask us to deny that she helped us, to deny that a Wild Mage’s powers can be used for good.”  Silver eyes narrowed.  “Your family cannot hide your magic forever; sooner or later, all will know that your family has Wild Magic.”_

_“Let it be later then,” Elyan spat, turning back to his sister’s grave.  “Swear to me, on her memory, that you will not tell a living soul of her deeds.”_

* * * * *

_“And so we swore the oath Elyan Calvin demanded of us, but I cannot let Isolde’s story fade into the mists of time.  Perhaps, in time, this diary of mine will see me foresworn, but I trust that when I am gone, this record of Isolde’s death will aid her family._

_Already, the kings clamor to slay all who carry the same blood as Tristan Conté and the people cry for vengeance, but I pray it will not always be so.  Some day, I hope, her story will be a badge of honor for her family instead of a shameful secret…”_

Giles read through Godric’s words again, his fingers clenching on the diary.  Slytherin had been right: the Calvin family’s magic _had_ eventually been exposed and two young teenagers stood to lose the most from their ancestor’s grieving short-sightedness.  But the Auror also breathed a sigh of relief; he wasn’t sure what he would’ve done if the nagging fear in his heart had turned out to be true.

Thankfully, he’d been wrong.  Giles stood, working the kinks out of his back and idly straightening the parchment he’d been taking notes on.  One finger traced over the griffin rampant on the front of the diary and a sad smile traced its way across the Auror’s jaw.  Reading Gryffindor’s diary, he’d gotten a far better impression of the infamous fourth Hogwarts Founder than he ever would’ve imagined.  That Salazar Slytherin had been Gryffindor’s best friend!  It boggled the mind, but Giles didn’t doubt it, though he did wonder what had caused such good friends to eventually break apart from each other.

The knock on his door drew Giles around with a frown.  Wary, he adjusted his wand holster and walked to the door, standing to the side and out of the potential line of fire.  He gripped the door with his left hand and threw it open, his right hovering over his wand.  Amused silver eyes met his from under a hood; Giles started as he took in the black robes with golden runes on the trim, the shaggy white locks peeking out from under the hood, and the wry half-smile on the older man’s face.

“I think,” the Unspeakable murmured, “That it is time we had a talk, young Auror.”

* * * * *

Alanna drummed her fingers as she wrote down the four chief symptoms of Parkinson’s in her notebook, considering how best to deal with each one.  It would not be easy and she knew treating the symptoms was not a good long-term solution, but Lance was right.  The more time they could buy for Uncle Wordy, the more time they would have to find a _real_ solution.  And there _was_ a solution, she could feel it in her bones.

As she finished her final note, she shut down her laptop and tucked it away.  Best to leave it off if she was going to be messing around with magic in her room.  Once the laptop was safely stowed, Alanna pulled her schoolbooks off her shelf, arranging them on her bed with her Ancient Runes primer in the center.  Grimly determined, she flipped to a fresh page in her notebook and sat in front of her books, opening the primer to a page she had memorized.

She checked her pen to make sure it had enough ink, then hunched over her notebook as she started her project with three simple words: Heal Muscle Tremor.

 

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. For this story at any rate. Will the kids be able to help Wordy? Well, we'll have to wait and see. In the meantime, we'll be moving onto "Will to Act" on February 15th, 2019.
> 
> Any comments are very welcome and a big thank you to all of you for taking the time to read (and hopefully enjoy) this story.


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